Thunder and Lightning
by captainodonewithyou
Summary: A collection of unrelated Static Quake drabbles and one-shots. (by bri)
1. Truth or Dare

It starts to cheer up Fitz, and everyone, really—to give their minds something to think about other than the empty space where Jemma should be—and deteriorates remarkably quickly into drunken truth or dare.

"God, I feel like I'm back in college," Bobbi muses with an extremely uncharacteristic giggle, not for the first time that night.

" _You_ are not old enough to be out of college," is Lincoln's standby reply—that for some unknown reason has been making Skye absolutely _steam,_ glaring daggers at the side of his head while he gives her eyes that make her stomach turn.

"She's old enough to have been married and divorced," she grumbles, maybe purposefully louder than she should. Fitz is the only one with the dignity left to shoot her a look and she instantly feels bad because she _likes_ Bobbi, she really does.

She just is not a huge fan of the attention she is getting tonight.

There is another indecipherable grumble that shockingly, Skye finds, did not leave her own mouth. Hunter is on the side of her not taken by Lincoln and she catches the dirty looks he is shooting him through her she can practically feel the icy sting of.

It is getting later in the game at this point and boundaries are being tested. Fitz has no shirt on, Bobbi's oddest fear is lego figures, Lincoln has stolen a pair of Coulson's socks from his bunk and has one tucked behind his ear courtesy of Bobbi—and there is really nothing else to expect when Skye pleas dare and Hunter's eyes narrow in thought that is clearly beginning to grow difficult for him at this point.

"I dare you, Skye…" More pained thought. "To a kiss," he finally concludes, looking pleased with himself. "Anyone in the game."

It's that that finally gets Lincoln's eyes off of Bobbi, and it isn't Skye's fault if vengeance blooms angrily in her stomach. Her only clear thought is that it is _very_ important to position herself so all the right people can see when she shuffles in front of Hunter, who has the decency to look sufficiently shocked.

"You said anyone," she reasons, smirking and resisting the urge to look at Lincoln's reaction, "Backing out of your own dare?"

It is technically then him who kisses her, in probably some misguided show of masculinity or an attempt at vengeance equal to her own. Either way the energy behind their combined attempts at revenge ends in a way she doesn't hate, his hand knotted in her hair and lips still hovering somewhat breathless over hers.

(She lets herself look at Lincoln now and isn't disappointed in the redness that colors his cheeks).

"Get a room next time," Fitz grumbles, staring uncomfortably at the ground in front of him.

She does not hate it at _all,_ and she smiles innocently at Lincoln as she shuffles back into her spot beside him.

And then he gets up.

"I'm going to bed."

Silence follows as he turns away, and Skye's heart gives way a little as she watches him go to something she refuses to call regret.

"I… me also."

She doesn't even bother to pretend to go to her room, following where he left, not daring to call after him till the hallway door closes behind her.

It isn't hard to catch up with him.

"What are you doing? You looked like you were having fun."

"I just had to kiss Hunter," she tells his bitter expression with a furrowed brow, "I'm concerned that you would label that as _fun_."

"Skye, you _picked_ him," he reasons fairly, and she matches his glare.

"Oh my God, do you _honestly_ think I wanted to kiss him!?"

His glare goes slightly perplexed as he stares at her, confusion clear as he shakes his head sharply as if to clear the fog.

"You sure as hell seemed to enjoy it."

They both are getting sharp and angry, and liquor and their combined tempers are not a good mix at all.

"Okay, you know what, whether or not you have an opinion about me kissing Hunter is completely irrelevant after you flirted with Bobbi all night!" She presses an angry finger to his chest, and he attempts a step back in retaliation only to press himself to the wall. " _You_ started this," she concludes angrily.

His eyes narrow.

"I did _not_ flirt with Bobbi!"

She raises a brow.

"You're too _young_ and _beautiful a_ nd _perfect_ to be out of c _ollege,"_ she mocks, anger possibly influencing the complete accuracy of the impression of him.

He startles her when he doesn't argue, expression unchanging as he stares her down.

"Okay, maybe I did," he finally snaps, "Why the hell would it even matter!?"

"Why does it matter to you that I kissed Hunter!?"

His ears are bright red and he scratches angrily at the nape of his neck, breathing in and out slowly, before meeting her eyes with an impressive albeit angry sincerity—her heart pounds oddly against her chest and in that beat, something in the mood between them shifts, and the finger she still has pressed hard to his chest flattens slowly until her hand is pressed to his stuttering heartbeat and their eyes are still caught in the others gaze.

And then she is grabbing his shoulders, dragging him down to her level before pushing him harder into the wall at his back as their lips clash together. It's sloppy, his fingers dragging down the line of her waist and halting at the hem of her shirt when his fingers brush skin and send shockwaves through her. His other hand is tangled deep in her curls cupping the back of her neck and dragging her closer as he shifts his angle over her to deepen the kiss—pushing off the wall and walking her backwards into the opposite one. The cool brick contrasts with the warmth of his skin and he drifts back a moment and she can feel his heart racing against her palm.

"That's why," he says breathily, hand tightening in her hair and at her waist and she wishes his eyes would open so she could see the full effect of the wrecked lines that have etched into his expression.

"Eh," she responds, smirking as she watches him tense, "I think I'll stick with Hunter."

His eyes open to ensure that she's teasing and when he glares at her, she swallows her laughter by pressing her lips back to his.


	2. Just Married

This is grossly cliche, unbetaed and absolutely ridiculous because I am generally so chill about the marriage thing but my friends temporarily broke me and this crap fluff is what came out. Beware, this literally has no plot or structure–just actual cotton candy (wedding cake flavored) fluff. Fitzsimmons, Static quake and Philinda fluffiness ahead

Quite possibly the worst most scattered bit of drabble I've ever written, be warned

* * *

It's Jemma who proposes to Fitz, in the end. They've been dating years now and obviously the entire bunker lives together as it is, and it is logical, really, one morning in the lab when she brings him his tea in his favorite Grumpy Cat mug and the thought slips from her lips.

"Do you think we ought to get married?"

To his credit, the question does not take Fitz nearly as off guard as it takes her. Instead, he carefully takes the hot mug from her hands and blows on it thoughtfully, clicking a few keys with his free hand to pause whatever he is doing before shrugging, turning back to her.

"Er, yea', I thin' we probably should."

She looks at her own mug then back at him, unable to keep a smile from edging at her lips.

"Is that your proposal, then?" She asks seriously as she can, watching his cheeks go pink and smiling fully, reaching with her own free hand to cradle his jaw and brush her fingers along the coloring.

"I don' reckon you'd've wanted it on any timeline but your own," he tells her honestly, and she laughs, running her fingers through his curls and leaning in for a peck.

"No, you're quite right," she agrees, forehead pressed tight to his before she relinquishes her hold on him, still smiling at the color in his cheeks. "What about next week? We can have it at your mum's—if you'd like and she'd have us. That's where you've always wanted to get married, yes? Home?"

He nods, smile finally edging at his own lips.

"I coul' give her a call."

"Good."

She's still grinning as she backs away to return to her desk when he reaches out to catch her wrist.

"Oi, wait," he says, stepping forward and leaving his tea behind as he takes her round the waist and pulls her in for a longer kiss.

"We're gettin' married," he utters in awe when they part.

And they do, just as planned—one week later in Fitz's mum's backyard in Scotland. Jemma wears her own mother's dress and Fitz gives her a ring he and Mack welded from a scrap of the Bus Coulson tried and failed to repair. It's a bigger gathering than they expect, old friends from the Academy and distant relatives and the entire core of SHIELD there to watch the wedding they'd all waited ten years for.

"You'll be going by Leo and Jemma Fitzsimmons now, right?" Skye asks in a hushed and vaguely concerned tone while the priest is in the midst of marrying them.

(It is obviously a very important question).

"I don't suppose either of us will be changing our names," Jemma murmurs back over her shoulder, and Fitz shoots Skye a dirty look that she reciprocates—it is enough for Coulson to have to clear his throat in that menacing way only he can pull off so flawlessly.

(Jemma doesn't regret choosing her as her Maid of Honor, regardless).

"Why aren't you from Scotland?" Skye whines halfheartedly at Lincoln as the sky is growing dark and the music is getting slower. They've retired to the soft grass—neither quite drunk enough for dancing—Skye curled to his side as they both watch the darkening above them and wait for the stars to begin to glow.

"What, so we can get married here?" He asks with a chuckle that makes his shoulder shake beneath her head, "I'm sure Mrs. Fitz would love to have us, if we so desired."

Skye sighs, running her fingers along his chest.

"But it doesn't mean anything—Scotland, I mean. No one should get married somewhere that doesn't mean something to them."

She feels his eyes on her and peers up at him to find his gaze gentle and a soft smile tugging at his lips.

"You know, we could wait to worry about this until we actually are engaged?"

She glares at him, and his smile breaks wider.

"Right, silly me to suggest such a thing."

He pauses and she allows her gaze to drift down the hill a bit to where Jemma and Fitz are grinning, hand in hand, talking to a group of people from the Academy that she isn't familiar with. They are just illuminated by the soft candles surrounding the area and reflected off her dress, it makes them glow.

She feels his head tilt behind her and she knows he's watching them, too.

"Skye?" he says after a moment, chest rumbling beneath her. She snuggles her head tighter against him. The stars are just beginning to come out now overhead, little pinpricks of light in the sky that seems to extend into forever.

"Mhm?"

"Marry me?"

She doesn't know why she laughs, but she does—soft and short.

"Okay."

He wraps his arm tight around her and pulls her a little closer and her heart swells a little in her chest when he speaks again, lips buried in her hair.

"Is that enough meaning for us to get married here?"

It is a quiet affair interrupted only by Coulson trying with all he's got not to cry. The wedding is small—His parents, Fitzsimmons, Hunter, Bobbi, Mack, May and Coulson—the most important people they can think to share the day with.

Coulson walks Skye down the makeshift aisle only because he insists and May officiates because Skye insists (she also tries to convince Lincoln the night before that maybe a Scotland _eloping_ is the best option and he laughs harder than he should because it is absolutely ridiculous to think of her scared of anything).

Jemma returns the favor and stands at Skye's back (reminding her to stop bloody _fidgeting_ when entirely necessary) and they only dance because Mrs. Fitz is there and can't stand the thought of letting a wedding reach less than its full potential. She uses what must be dark magic and somehow, everyone finds themselves tucked close to their love for a slow dance.

(Phil and May don't need to get married, they've decided. They are in love and whether or not they are married won't change it.

"It's silly, really."

"It's for young people."

"Melinda?"

"Yes?"

"Maybe we should get married after all.")


	3. What Happens in College

"Okay, you definitely do not need another coffee."

He's probably right, judging solely by the three already empty cups lined neatly along the edge of the table (courtesy of him, not her—she sees no reason to move them _anywhere_ but the clutter drives Lincoln out of his mind and every time she returns with a fresh cup, the emptied one is added to the tidy line). But the file she's cracking through for Computer science still isn't near finished and she judges her need for coffee on the work still to be done—not the caffeine already consumed. So she just smirks, rolling her eyes and _entirely_ accidentally nudging one of the empty cups out of perfect line as she passes towards the counter.

"Ready to switch to decaf?" the barista asks as she approaches, and Skye stares at her dubiously until she sighs her defeat, marking the cup as caffeinated despite her pretty regular attempts to change the habit.

Her name is Jemma and she and Skye take the same English course—Skye sat beside her on the first day mostly because she looked smart and spoke with a lilting British accent—her premonition about her brain had not been wrong.

"If you bring one of the empty cups next time I can fill that," she tells her in a misguided attempt to assist, nodding back in the direction of the cluttered table she and Lincoln are sharing. "I think the cup clutter could be giving your boyfriend a midlife crisis."

He's bent close to the table, prodding the cup she knocked out of place meticulously back into line, squinting at them as he does. Skye almost laughs, glancing back at the girl who is now turning to fill the cup.

"He isn't my boyfriend and I live to make his life hell," she assures her, half hoping he's straining to hear even though he is entirely too far away to. "I'll continue to drain your supply of cups and kill the earth, thanks."

The barista turns back to her, popping a lid on the steaming coffee and sliding it across the counter with a surrendering shake of her head, glancing again between Skye and Lincoln—somewhat dubiously.

"Carry on, I guess," she tells her, and Skye smiles as she turns back to their table, warm cup in hand.

All four empty cups are now lined neatly in a row, and she refrains from screwing with his handiwork this time, sitting down as she takes a gulp of the steaming liquid—Lincoln watching with raised eyebrows as she does.

"Do you think that it's possible the amount of coffee you drink has fundamentally altered your body's ability to regulate caffeine?" He asks only a little sarcastically, and she nudges his shin with her toes.

"Don't throw shade at my bodily functions, Doc," she chides, smirking, attention back on her screen. "You'll make me regret that I actually made the _decision_ to spend these last four years at the same school as you."

That gets his attention, and he glares at her over the orderly line of cups.

"You couldn't have left town if you wanted to."

He calls her bullshit with ease, and really, she'd expect no less of the guy she grew up bullshitting. He's not wrong at all—even if she'd _wanted_ to leave their little town she knows she wouldn't have. As much as she'd have others believe she is entirely apathetic, she never could have gone far from her family—no one knows it better than the ex-boy-next-door—number of sleepovers she'd bailed on him in her younger more fragile years somewhat innumerable.

Instead of admitting her defeat, she shushes him dramatically.

"I thought my secrets were safe with you," she chides with faux betrayal, and he shakes his head, turning back to the massive book he's been working at all afternoon and effectively ending the conversation.

She refocuses on her program, making certain to hit the keys extra hard in just the way that bugs him, and he turns to the next page so hard Skye is a bit startled it doesn't tear, staring hard across the table at her. She smirks, scooting her chair around the edge of the table with a loud scraping that turns a few heads—until she's sitting on his corner and her knee is pressed into his. His glare follows her the whole way, and she doesn't stop smirking.

"I'm bored," she tells him, knocking her knee further into his till his glare softens into a roll of his eyes.

"You're drunk on caffeine," he answers, mimicking her tone and nudging his leg back against hers. "and you have to finish your—" the word fails to find his tongue and he wiggles his fingers frustrated in the air instead, miming her typing, "for class tomorrow."

"Program," she fills the space belatedly, before dropping her forehead dramatically onto his book. "I don't _want_ to."

" _And_ she crashes," he groans under his breath, prodding her head twice before dragging his book out from underneath her and forcing her to lift her head back up.

She glares at him.

"That definitely is my pillow you just stole."

"It definitely was my anatomy book first."

She's preparing a reply of much greater sass when the bell over the door rings, and some impossible force prompts her to glance at the new entry.

She regrets it _immediately_ when her eyes meet his.

" _Shit_."

She averts her gaze almost immediately to Lincoln, but not fast enough to miss the recognition registering in the expression of the man at the door. Lincoln's response to her own reaction is equally immediate, eyes shooting swiftly to the door to see what has incited her sudden seriousness.

"What the _hell_ is he doing here?" He says entirely too loudly without seeming to even notice the impressively inappropriate volume.

But Skye is wondering the same thing. When she and Grant broke up, he was graduating—he was meant to be leaving her life for good, and it was half the reason she was able to finally cut the ties, delete his number and change her locks.

The other half of the reason was Lincoln's hand consistently backing up hers, and when she feels the familiar soft warmth find her hand beneath the table, protectively covering the hand on her knee, she flips her hand beneath his and tangles their fingers, holding tight to her resolve.

And it's then that the idea hits her, really, and she can hear Grant's footsteps approaching far too quickly for her to properly explain.

"I'm going to kiss you," she warns Lincoln sharply beneath her breath, finding his eyes and trying to ignore how they widen and his brow furrows. His mouth parts, to protest or to question her, judging by the confused lines on his forehead, but she doesn't wait—grounding her free hand to his knee and closing the short distance between them.

His hand tightens around hers when her lips find his and she presses closer as Grant's footsteps slow beside her, pressing her forehead to the lines in his. He tastes like the tangy lemon bread the coffeshop makes that he has the worst affinity for and he doesn't react at first—till she pulls back, breath more taken than she'd like to admit and catches sight of Grant coming to a stop beside their table—and he must, too, because he presses nearer again, ghosting his fingers over her cheek and brushing his lips briefly back to hers before retreating fully.

For a moment she forgets the entire reason she's just kissed her best friend, head clouded with bright lemon and gentle touches and the expression etched into his face that is far too wrecked for the pretend they're attempting to put on.

Then Grant clears his throat.

She looks sharply towards him, reality slowly coming back down upon her as she resists the urge to reach her fingers to brush across her lips.

"Oh," she grumbles, a little too breathily for her taste, hoping her distaste still comes strongly across. His eyes are dragging across her in a slow once over, and she doesn't fail to notice when his eyes linger on her lips. "Why are you here?"

"Nice to see you too," he greets wryly, gaze finally remeeting hers.

She rolls her eyes.

"It isn't, actually."

Her heart definitely shouldn't still be racing in the way it is.

 _It's the caffeine._

He clutches her hand a little firmer in his, guiding them none too subtly from her knee to the corner of the table. She glances sideways at him to see his icy stare glued to the other man.

The two had never liked each other. Skye had always blamed their mutual protectiveness, but as it turned out, Lincoln was the only one of the two with her best interests in mind—Grant just never trusted that she could be around someone as attractive as her best friend and not be kissing him—which was ironic, really, when it came down to it.

Grant is still standing silently at the edge of the table and Lincoln's glare hardens as Skye glances again between them.

"Did either of us do something to imply we wanted you over here?" Lincoln asks, tone cold.

Grant raises a brow.

"You're just as friendly as usual, aren't you?"

She feels him tense sharply beside her and he's snapping back before she can interrupt.

"Did you really expect a welcome home banner after the shit you pulled?"

She squeezes his hand sharply and he goes silent—but if looks could kill, she thinks, he'd be a murderer.

"Hi. Welcome back to town. We missed you," Skye says with dry sarcasm, staring him down. "Was it one of those you were looking for? You're welcome. Please leave."

She scoots a bit nearer to the edge of her chair and Lincoln, leg now pressed fully against his beneath the table—and all she can _think_ about is his lips on hers.

They've slept in the same damn _bed_ on countless occasions, both as kids and otherwise. They touch—they push, they shove and hold hands and fall asleep on each-other's shoulders—but Skye has never felt the way she does touching him now, memory of his lips on hers poised persistently on her mind—like everywhere their bodies meet is a source of electricity, sending chills rushing through her.

She wants to kiss him again, and _God_ has she screwed the hell up.

She finds a very large part of herself completely absent from the situation currently at hand—instead stuck on the way he'd seemed to have to catch his breath when they'd drawn apart—wondering whether he is a better actor than she knows…or if he is feeling the same sharp static drawn between them that she is.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming," Grant says, ignoring everything else they've both said to motion vaguely between them. Lincoln tenses again but when her grip stays tight on his hand, bites his tongue.

"Oh yeah, you really did anticipate it didn't you. As a matter of fact, it's actually really good you all but forbade me from hanging out with him," Skye says, continuing her cheery sarcastic tone, "I might just have cheated before you did and then how would you have maintained that badass demeanor?"

He continues ignoring everything she says, and annoyance flames in her stomach as his eyes fall on the neat line of cups and he reaches to prod one out of place.

"You know what?" She says sharply, untangling her fingers from Lincoln's to reach and fix the cup herself before he can, staring icily at Grant as she does. "You need to go."

"Sorry?"

"I said, you need to go," she reiterates, exaggeratedly slow, covering the line of cups a little too harshly with her arm when he reaches out to prod another out of place, eyes on Lincoln. "It is generally good judgment not to approach your ex. Especially in a coffeeshop, especially when she's with a different guy, especially when the guy already _really_ hates you."

She feels Lincoln nod his agreement beside her in a move that would be amusing, were she not trying to ignore how it makes his arm shift against hers.

Grant's expression has grown significantly more annoyed and she feels vague success at the reaction.

"I have to go anyway," he lies through his _teeth_ , but Skye is past calling him out on it.

"Good."

Lincoln doesn't shift from her side until the bell stops jangling it's far too cheery goodbye after Grant, and Skye still doesn't lift her arm from the cups.

"I think that you can probably stop defending the Great Wall of Coffee now," he tells her, voice slightly lacking in it's usual humor.

She dazedly lifts her arm, dropping it to her side and glancing at him.

"Right."

Once their gazes meet, neither can quite let it go—eyes silently locked until she clears her throat and drags herself to her feet.

"There is no way in hell I'm getting more work done here," she tells him, hoping her voice only sounds off to her. "I'm… gonna head back to my dorm."

He echoes her movements, closing his book as she shuts her computer and rising to his feet.

"I'll walk you back," he says, and his voice, at least, is definitely off pitch, "It's starting to get dark."

As they slip out the door, Skye catches the stare of Jemma from behind the counter—raising her eyebrows after her.

Xxx

The goodbye stretches awkwardly between them—they are casual touchers, really—shoulder punches and fleeting hugs and hair ruffles—but each movement towards the other stops stunted in her doorway, till she finally swallows hard and just murmurs, "see you tomorrow," hating how empty it feels in the air between them and how his eyes seem in a perpetual state of adding and reading and decoding, when she's so used to them just _knowing_.

The door shuts between them and she can't bring herself to leave it, letting herself sag sideways against it, ear pressing uncomfortably to the wood.

And Grant, officially, has succeeded in destroying her entire life.

Part of her, a very large part, wants desperately to scream out her frustration—maybe loud and long enough to go back in time and not screw up the most consistent, reliable, best bit of her life.

Somehow, the longing to kiss him again is still stronger, and she rotates sharply so she's facing the door, knocking her forehead accidentally and cursing as she kicks it (because it is entirely the door's fault for attacking her).

"Skye?"

His voice is muffled but definitely his and she freezes, heart picking up that same stuttering from earlier that only makes the urge to scream grow.

 _Why the hell is he still standing there?_

"Maybe… we need to talk about what just happened?"

She presses her skull harder against the door, noticing how close his muffled tones sound and wondering if he is positioned similarly on the other side of it.

"Um… yeah," she responds after a moment, swallowing and hoping she's spoken loud enough for him to hear.

Another pause.

"Are you, uh, gonna let me in?"

She squeezes her eyes shut, groaning silently in her mind and trying desperately to ban the taste of lemon and the soft feel of him from her mind.

"I think that would be a really, really bad idea," she responds.

He's quiet and she knows immediately she's said the wrong thing, capable even of reading his goddamn _silence_.

This time she groans audibly, curling her free hand into a grounding fist as she reaches for the handle and pauses.

"Look, I literally have no idea what I'll do if I open this door."

The words stick to her tongue and her stomach turns nervously at the silence that follows.

Then;

"Me either."

A chill shivers down her body, and the sensation combined with the sudden realization that they literally can't screw things up worse than they have makes her turn the knob and drag the door open.

He's right at the frame and she thinks she was right—he was leaning on the door, too. But it is the only semi-sensible thought she has before their eyes meet and her heart somehow pounds harder.

The transparent, tired, honesty in his eyes takes her off guard.

"I want to kiss you again," he says almost immediately, voice edging somewhere between dejection and longing—and she squeezes her hand on the edge of the door.

"Yeah," she murmurs, "…yeah, I do too."

He takes a small step forward, hesitantly, into her apartment and their gazes mingle a beat.

"Maybe—"

"Maybe we should."

She takes the shuffle forward this time so they are a breath from touching, still staring at each other.

"I'm going to kiss you," he tells her, giving her a beat longer than she gave him to process it.

And then he does.


	4. Oranges

It starts because Jemma is opening an orange. It's abnormal, for them all to eat lunch together, but today the stars have aligned and resulted in their odd little family settled in chairs that definitely do not match around the long table they usually use for meetings. It hadn't taken the majority of the team long to eat—but Jemma and Fitz had come in a bit late and Skye is a perpetually slow eater and Lincoln makes a habit of staying at her side—so before long it is just the four of them, an orange, potato chips, sandwiches of varying varieties, and one large chocolate cupcake that they all admit (begrudgingly) is rightfully Fitz's.

"Jemma what the _hell_ ," Skye yelps when her eye is hit by _something_ that she is quick to label as orange guts when her it begins burning aggressively. She drops her half a sandwich back to her plate as she reaches to rub at her stinging eye, which only makes the pain worse. "God, this is what happens when healthy food gets too close to you," she whines, glowering at Jemma with her good eye.

She looks apologetic, but continues to peel her orange.

"Casualties happen," she says with a shrug, discarding the rinds in a neat pile on the corner of her plate and splitting the orange open, holding a piece out. "Peace offering?"

Skye drops her hand so she can look properly offended at the piece of fruit she's holding towards her.

"You think I'm going to put what's doing this," she motions at her still burning eye, "into my body? Uh, no."

Lincoln, who was previously keeping himself out of the spat, fails to hold back a snort at her words—and both girls turn their heads to him. He holds up his hands, but can't wipe the smirk from his lips.

"I mean, she makes a fair point," he manages, and Skye is taken by surprise when the potato chip arcs across the table, bouncing off his forehead.

He shakes his head when it does, brief confusion crossing his expression before his gaze falls unamused on Jemma, brow raising.

"Really?"

"You're supposed to be _helping_ me better her diet," she tells him, punctuating the words with another perfectly aimed chip bounced off his nose.

Skye is still taken aback by the entire situation—Jemma throwing chips at her boyfriend's face probably one of the last things she expected to see in her lifetime—when a chip bounces unfortunately crooked off his cheek and into her hair.

Her eyes snap sharply to Jemma and she thinks the table might go entirely still, save for Fitz scooting slowly and wisely away from Jemma's side.

"Please jus' spare me," Fitz whines as Skye feels across her plate for her sandwich, eyes glued to Jemma as she does, peeling the peanut butter slice off the top and watching the other girls eyes flicker nervously between her and the bread as she does. Jemma doesn't even fight it when Skye stands up, leaning across the table and smashing the bread, peanut butter side up, onto her friend's forehead—jiggling it for good measure before sinking back into her seat, smirking.

"I probably deserved that," Jemma squeaks from behind the bread.

The table only remains silent a beat longer, before Fitz makes the mistake of laughing—and it's from there that all hell breaks loose. Jemma peels the bread from her face to find him still cackling and rolls her eyes and splats it firmly to his cheek, successfully silencing him. Lincoln chooses that moment to get his own revenge, chucking a stray chip at Jemma's forehead and biting his tongue, hard, when it sticks to the peanut butter already there. He doesn't bite it hard enough, however, because then he's laughing and she's chucking the entire peeled orange at his chest, which only makes him laugh harder (especially when it again bounces off Skye)—and then food is flying in all directions.

The moment doesn't last long, however—something with Fitz taking a dislike to Skye deciding he needs the jelly half of her sandwich on the opposite cheek—and suddenly all eyes are watching as he reaches with blind competition for the coveted cupcake, smashing it into her face.

"Well, that got rather unfortunate rather quickly," Jemma notes as the wrapper falls off of Skye's lips and Fitz brushes his hands over the table.

"I won, yeah?" He asks matter-of-factly, glancing pointedly at Skye.

Everyone but Skye, who is still blinking in shock, nods belatedly—own eyes glued to her as well.

She finally reaches, slowly, to touch her cheek—staring down at the chocolate that comes off on her fingers in silent shock.

Then;

"You _killed the cupcake_ , Fitz."

"But I won," he smirks up at her from where he's now quietly brushing the food in front of him onto his plate.

She blinks.

"I think it's possible that she's in shock," Lincoln notes, snapping in front of her face as if it'll prove the point.

" _He killed the cupcake_ ," she repeats, turning to Lincoln now in hopes he'll understand that her heart has kind of crumbled along with the formerly perfect chocolate cake on her lips.

"Definitely shock," Jemma agrees, and she is cleaning up her own area now—rolling her eyes. "The real catastrophe is the loss of my orange, not Fitz's cupcake."

"I hate all of you," she calls loudly after Fitz and Jemma as they move towards the door. "The cupcake was an _innocent_ you _monsters_."

The door shuts behind them and she turns her only a little sarcastic glare on Lincoln.

"Do you even realize how perfect these cupcakes were?" She snaps at his smirk, which only grows at her words.

"I am entirely certain Jemma will make you new cupcakes, Skye," he promises her, standing slowly and brushing the crumbs from his lap, offering her a hand that she glares at. "Come on, you're an actual natural disaster, earthquake."

She stands pointedly without his hand, crossing her arms and continuing her glare when she comes even with his chin.

"Well _this cupcake_ still died without being appreciated," she tells him, catching sight of a chip crumb on his shoulder and reaching to brush it to the ground.

When she looks back up at him, he's grinning again, studying her face.

"What?"

"I'm just _appreciating_ it a whole hell of a lot right now," he tells her with a shrug, allowing her to shove his chest and laughing, shoulders shaking.

When they fall slowly silent she's still glaring at him, but she can't manage to quite as hard as she'd like—and when he reaches to softly brush a finger at her bangs she lets him.

"Cupcake looks nice on you," he tells her, and his lips twitch just enough for her to roll her eyes, reaching to drag her fingers through the icing and crumbs and smearing it down his cheek.

(He lets her do that, too.)

"Who wore it better?" she jokes, maybe flirtatiously, maybe on purpose, cradling his opposite jaw—and it is his turn to roll his eyes.

"It concerns me that I am attracted to the version of you that is caked in cupcake."

He reaches forward, then, thumbing at the icing on her lower lip.

"You shouldn't be too worried," she murmurs as he repeats the motion, "I'm just remarkably hot. Also, I swear to God," she continues without pause as he rubs again at the icing, "Campbell, if you are clearing the icing off of my lips to kiss me we are breaking up."

His brows raise at the threat, and his thumb comes to a hesitant rest in the dimple of her chin.

"That is perfectly damn good icing on my lips, you asshole," she tells him, dropping her hand from his cheek to cross her arms stubbornly across her chest. "It's both of us or neither of us," she shrugs, biting at the corners of her lips to keep them from twitching.

He pauses and she can't bite back her smirk anymore, punching gently at his shoulder as compensation for the kink in her armor.

"I'm dead serious, sparky," she says past her grin, "we can start singing High School musical right this _second_."

She sees the challenge in the higher raise of his brow and really, he should know better by now.

 _"I gotta say what's on my—"_

She isn't two notes in and laughter is escaping his lips–and a beat later he's curling his free arm round the small of her back tugging her close, trapping the hands she's pretending to hold a mic in between them as his laughter and her dramatic singing mingle and then fall quiet, silenced by smearing icing and the other's lips.

She still has icing on her hand and all she can think about is sharing the wealth—and she finally wiggles her arm enough for him to part from her for a breath to let her free them from between them.  
"It would have to be something a lot worse than smashed cupcake to lose you over," he says breathily in the time it takes for her to free her arms, cradling his jaw with the icing and tangling the other into his hair to pull him back down to her with little resistance, letting out a little noise when he simultaneously tightens the arm at her waist, pulling her flush to him.

"Oranges?" she suggests as his lips find hers and her feet find their grounding, and he laughs into the kiss before tilting just out of her reach, nose rubbing against hers.

"I would face a thousand oranges for you," he assures her, and she fights the distance to brush her lips fleetingly on his.

"Even a thousand and one oranges?"

It's his turn to press his lips shortly to hers.

"That might be one too many."

She faux gasps, pressing her forehead harder into his as she pulls her lips just out of his reach, continuing the back and forth game they've got going mainly because his kisses only get better the more she makes him wait.

"You only love me a thousand oranges?"

She slips her hands to press at his chest when he tries again to kiss her, and he glares begrudgingly at her.

"Do you even love me one orange?"

She contemplates as he stares dubiously at her then smiles her most winning smile as she ducks her head and fails to hide the bubble of laughter that rises in her throat.

"You love me _a thousand oranges_ ," she repeats in her best dreamy teen voice, and he rolls his eyes.

"I didn't think so."

"Please kiss me more."

She tangles a hand back into his hair and she doesn't have to ask twice.


	5. You've Got a Friend

"What the _hell_ , Skye?"

He is kinda blurry and it is kinda dark so she can't make him out as well as she would like, but she recognizes the black and yellow Pikachu shirt as his beloved pajama top immediately (she has stolen it more than a few times through their lives), and it is only then, really, that she considers that she would currently probably estimate the time to be late as hell, and that she has been banging on his door in the dead of night for at least five minutes longer than necessary to wake his entire complex.

"Oops." A smirk tugs at her lips unbidden. "On the positive side, maybe some of your neighbors will think you were just having _really loud sex_."

He runs a hand tiredly through his perpetually messy hair, and he doesn't even seem to have enough energy to glare at her.

"There is literally no universe in which knocking on a door could be mistaken for really loud sex, but I appreciate the sentiment."

He is coming a little more into focus now, enough that she can see the little concerned crinkle edging at the corners of his eyes as he takes her in.

She is sure she is a sight to behold, really. Knotted hair and a stain in her shirt and bags under her eyes that she had observed in a car window that morning. But she is exhausted and she can feel her composure crumbling and she just wants him to let her in the door.

"If you let me in I promise not to knock on your door anymore," she tells him conspiratorially, swaying closer and wiggling her brows.

His expression doesn't change.

"I think that is the general consensus on door knocking etiquette," he confirms deadpan, eyes shifting to where she crosses her finger sloppily over his heartbeat to guarantee her promise–before she is distracted by the bright yellow Pikachu in the center of his shirt and is slowly tracing his shape instead.

"Pikachu is such a pretty bird."

His jaw clenches as he stares at her, still tracing Pikachu's general form on his chest.

"You're baked."

It isn't a revelation–she knows it is obvious enough, but she shrugs anyway–shrinking away from him, because she sees the shift in his expression and she knows where he is going.

"Did he even bother to bring you here, or did he just lock you out?"

His jaw is tense and his expression hardening, and she doesn't want to hear it, not again.

"I'm coming in." She tells him, and doesn't even give him a chance to respond, stumbling past the doorway and into the apartment she knows better than her own, managing not to stumble over the loose board that she generally falls on at least half of the time.

He stays in the doorway a moment, body tense–and she hopes for her sake he is too tired to pursue the issue, at least tonight.

She knows _she_ is too tired.

She turns to the couch and the door slams and she knows she isn't getting off the hook.

"Can I take a shower? Your shower is Shower God. It's like the rain? But better."

His eyes rove again over her sloppy figure, and the anger is replaced with a something softer–but still annoyed. She moves closer to him, not entirely sure of her exact intent until she's tracing the pikachu on his shirt, again.

"Wait, where are his wings?"

He sighs.

"Take a shower, Skye. I'll wash your clothes."

His words register slowly, and her responding smile is belated.

"Can I wear Pikachu?"

He doesn't even flinch, this time, grasping the hem of the shirt and pulling it over his head, shoving it into her arms before she realizes what is happening.

Her finger is still on his chest.

"Did you know you have abs?"

" _Shower_ , Skye. Leave your clothes outside the door."

He leads her to the bathroom with a hand at the small of her back, ignoring her complaints that she ' _knows where the damn God Shower is, alright?_ '

His shirt is still warm clenched in her hands when he shuts the door behind her.

xxx

He is sitting on the couch and she is still buzzed when she comes out of the bathroom, toweling her hair dry. Her lids are drooping but she knows the concern eating at his expression as he watches her approach.

She sits right up against him on the couch, dropping her head heavily to his shoulder and letting the echo of his heartbeat fill the stretching silence.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, because she is, and because she can't stand for his frustration to bubble over and ruin how relaxed she is, tuned into his slow, even heartbeat.

"Why?"

His genuine response puzzles her, and she reluctantly lifts her head from his shoulder. She is a little startled to find him turned towards her, faces closer than entirely socially acceptable. But she is still comfortable pressed against him, chin digging into his shoulder, and her body is too heavy and content to move.

"For waking you up. And pissing you off."

His brow furrows sharply.

"When have I ever been angry at you, Skye?" He asks, and he's dead serious, but a smile plays at her lips.

"That time I buried your G.I. Joe and forgot where? My dad grounded me for a _week_."

He glares at her, but it is a soft sort of glare that feels oddly more like a smile.

"When have I ever been angry at you when we weren't five years old?" He amends, and she thinks she catches the edge of a smile as she buries her face back against his shoulder.

(She thinks of the time she broke his favorite Elvis record when they were 13, and the time they were going to go to prom together but Grant un-dumped her at the last minute, and the time she had puked on the carpet at his parents on his 19th birthday, and the floor shaking fight they had when he told her he was quitting medical school with only a semester to go.

He may have been annoyed with her plenty, but no matter how she scrapes through their memories, she can't come up with a single instance of anger that lasted more than a flash).

"So you're angry at him."

It isn't a question because it doesn't have to be. He doesn't have to answer, either.

"I know that you know you deserve better than my asshole brother," he finally says softly. "We agree he's a piece of shit, we've always agreed on that. I just… I wish…"

He doesn't finish the sentiment, letting the silence fall back around them—not quite as comfortable as before.

It is the quiver of her shoulders that gives her away.

"Are you crying?!"

"No."

It's a sob but she feels him nod, anyway.

"Alright."

His arm finally loops snuggly around her waist, drawing her nearer to his side.

"I broke up with him."

It isn't the first time and she knows her friend well enough to know he is thinking it won't be the last—especially when his shoulders sink. But there is something different this time.

She _isn't_ going back to him—not this time.

"In retrospect, I didn't actually think it through at all," she murmurs, not really with any end point—just because with Lincoln, she can just let the little things pulling at her mind play off her tongue and he'll take away some of the pressure they are pressing against her shoulders.

It's always been that way.

"I just… was over it," she pauses again, wry laugh tugging past the remnants of the heavy sobs in her throat as she turns her head further into her friend's shoulder. "I don't even have anywhere to stay."

"Of course you do."

There is no hesitation in his tone.

"Lincoln, I can't—"

"Until you get back on your feet," he responds stubbornly. "You can stay here. Or with Jemma. Or even your dad, but probably not until you are less stoned," his voice takes a playful edge and she smiles, lifting her head and peering up at him.

"I am less stoned."

" _Less_ less stoned, cuddles."

Her smile cracks a little wider, melting at the lump in her throat.

"Thank you, Lincoln."

"Hmm."


	6. Finale Continuation

"What happened?" His silhouette is dark in the doorway but it's him, she knows it's him before he opens his mouth.

(S: i need you

L: where are you?

S: bathroom. i..just come. please. i need you

L: on my way)

There are strands of hair trimmings between her fingers and the icy floor she is grasping at for any hint of steadiness.

The world is still spinning.

"I don't know where the vacuum is."

It's distant–the ache of the hard ground edging into her ass, the sting where she clutches the scissors just a little too tight, the tears burning for release in her eyes. She feels like she's still clutching the back of Coulson's seat, watching the security footage and knowing it has to be a prank.

Her voice is the most distant thing of all, echoing deadly in the shadowed bathroom.

"I think the bunker will be alright unvacuumed 'til tomorrow, Skye."

His voice is soft and soothing, but when he moves a step into the bathroom she grows inexplicably tense.

She shakes her head, once, sharply–hair whipping around her face foreignly.

"I made a mess."

Her voice cracks and she feels like she has to add more to the explanation even as a sob clogs the back of her throat.

"You cut your hair?" He asks, still in that gentle and unaccusing tone.

All she can manage past the lump is a nod.

"Lights are generally a good first step when you're holding sharp objects near your face."

"She was…going to help me. Cut it."

'It,' comes out a sobbing hiccup and she folds instinctively in on herself, away from the pressing silence around her.

He's on the ground in front of her without her even seeing him move, knees pressed to the cool floor directly in front of hers.

"Hey," softly. "Shh."

Warm fingers smooth a strand of stray hair behind her ear, lingering as they brush back along her jaw.

Her knees are pressing into his.

"I can't…I'm not…" Her voice is quivering beyond her control and his hand settles cradling her jaw, light eyes tuned sharply onto her beneath a brow wrinkled with concern.

She breathes in, deep and slow, focusing on how his eyes follow her movements and only then noticing the heavy presence of sleep on his lids.

Guilt bites within her.

"Everyone is doing what they can to find her and here I am, making more shit to be cleaned up."

The words shake and weakly fade into another shaking sob.

His hand is still on her jaw.

"This never should have happened."

She thinks it is something about the steadiness of his fingers pressed to her skin, his gaze tuned to hers–something grounding her and tugging her sharply back to the present at every warm touch–that makes her fold into him when the next sob overcomes her. She presses her forehead to his shoulder, moving closer as her shift sends his arms instinctively looping around her, drawing her near.

"I know."

He says it into her new choppy hair, and his fingers run soothingly down her spine.

"I can't be in our bunk without her."

She doesn't even realize it till the words tumbled out and his grasp round her pulls tighter.

"Sleep in my room. I'll find a couch."

"I can't–"

"I'm not actually putting it up for debate."

She is only crying harder and harder but the sound echoes back at her and she hears it, really hears it–and for a moment, her fingers aren't grasping a seat watching her friend disappear anymore. For a moment, her surroundings aren't muffled and distant.

Then one of his hands has found the scissors in hers and he's gingerly prying them away.

"I can clean this up later."

He's brushing gentle circles against her back and his breath is warm against her ear.

"Let me get you to bed. Low energy is even lower when you've got all our extra features to keep powered up, believe me. You need your rest."

(He brings her to his room and she doesn't even have to beg when she asks him hushed to stay.

"I'm so goddamn tired of everyone leaving."

He draws circles in the palm of her hand.

"Skye…"

"Don't leave me alone tonight. Please don't."

He doesn't.)


	7. Can't Help Falling in Love

He likes Elvis and is utterly _ridiculous_ about it.

Seriously—the first time he invites Skye back to his apartment (or rather, she does—but it's a different story for a different time and really, it isn't her fault that they are in Cincinnati and it is pouring rain and his place has to be somewhere nearby)—she bustles shivering and dripping through the door he unlocks and kicks open, beneath his the leather jacket he'd draped round her shoulders that now has got to be triple her weight—the first thing to catch her eye and draw her in is the turntable.

It's perched precariously on a couple of boxes, piled up into a table and shoved full of a very generous collection of records.

"Oh my god, Lincoln, you _nerd_."

She doesn't have to look at him to know his cheeks are burning red, but smiles over her shoulder as she shimmies out of the jacket and steps out of her shoes simultaneously. He catches the leather as it slips off her arms, blindly shoving it onto a wall hook behind him as a quiet sorta smile plays at his lips and makes her heart flutter.

She turns back away from him, letting herself further into the sparsely furnished room, taking in the machine more fully and ignoring the chilly hardwood beneath her bare feet. It is old, certainly, but take care of. Rust stains carefully treated, only the thinnest coat of dust due to absence. She smiles in spite of herself, ducking down to run a finger along the records boxed in beneath it, skimming the titles carefully.

She hears him coming up softly behind her.

"It's all Elvis," she notes, looking up at him and smirking in spite of herself. Her hair is wet, dripping unapologetically down her back—and when he reaches to gently thumb a stray soaked lock back behind her hair, it's entirely due to the chill that's set into her skin that she shivers.

His thumb lingers against her jaw.

(They've touched like this before—hesitant lingering and soft looks and loud longing—but she has never wanted to drag him to her lips as much as she does in this moment).

The spell breaks and he draws back, reaching to rub nervously where the blush is coming back to his ears.

"My mom had a serious thing for him," he laughs uneasily and she straightens, interest piqued—not used to hearing about his past. "when I was a kid, these records are all that ever played in my house. Couldn't stomach getting rid of them, you know?"

She doesn't, not really. But she nods encouragingly anyway, offering a gentler smile that he returns—but he doesn't add anything else.

She glances again at the collection of vinyl, arranged so meticulously, and catches his movement closer to the machine out of the corner of her eyes—watching the fingers that had so gently brushed along her jaw moments earlier move with the same softness across the layer of dust she'd noted earlier, clearing it carefully away.

"Which is your favorite?"

She motions at the records as she says it, even though she's certain it's implied.

He doesn't answer except with a slight smile, running his fingers along the rows and stopping almost subconsciously on a blue tinted slip, tugging it gently from the rest and cautiously revealing the record from within it. She watches transfixed as he finishes dusting off the machine and perches the disk on the turntable with such practiced, certain motions—till the needle is perched and a soft tune is starting up from the speakers.

He watches her with nervous expectancy as the song picks up; eyes wide and tuned to her, wet hair somehow still stuck up in all directions.

She gets then why he'd brushed through her hair—she itches to reach out and mess his darkened blonde waves further—but she fists her fingers into the damp fabric of her shirt instead.

"It sounds like a diner at midnight," she tells him, because it does, and because the silence is charging and electrifying and burning the longer they let it sit.

(When she blinks, she sees a dark, curly haired woman with pristine red lips and a polka-dot dress leaning up against the bar and grinning at a dapper fellow in a dark blue suit. It makes her smile).

"A diner?"

He says it through a laugh, and she lets go of her shirt, reaching to shove at his chest. He's faster, though, still laughing as he catches her wrists, holding on as he glances at the ground between them, biting back the chuckling that is clearly still rising in his throat, before smirking at her past his still lowered brow.

"Jerk," she informs him, and his smirk only grows.

She is acutely aware of his fingers still looped gently round her wrists and her nails still dug gently into the damp burgundy of his shirt over his chest. She is aware of the shift of his hold on her and the shift in the speeding race of his heart beneath her hands. She is aware of how she slips a breath nearer to him and she is aware of the way his entire expression slips so subtly softer.

"In the diner they're dancing," she tells him in a faux-secretive tone, and he smirks this time—but doesn't laugh.

Instead, he slips his fingers along her wrists then her palms, tangling them into hers and startling her when he steps back, tugging her softly forward with him.

"Like this?" He asks, still smirking, with an exaggerated wiggle of his brows.

A laugh rises in her throat and the challenge eats at her.

"Hm mm," she shakes her head, turning the laughter into a mischievous smirk and taking the moment to catch _him_ off guard, tightening her fingers in his and stepping boldly forward, leaving only a breath between them. She stares up at him, watching his expression shift again—lips parted and eyes glued to her.

She moves one of her hands, guiding his to her hip and detangling them to clutch at his shoulder.

"More like this."

She feels the deep inhale he takes and when his fingers finally respond, pressing into her waist, she echoes the breath.

The silliness is gone and the silence is gaining charge again as they sway to the slowing song and sway nearer to each other—and she's aware of their matching movements but not purposely pressing closer and closer to him. Aware of how his fingers slip round to the small of her back and aware of how their hands tighten against each other and aware of her finger slipping round the back of his neck as their bodies come together.

She is aware of how his eyes keep that clouded yet focused hold on hers and aware of how all of a sudden, she _isn't_ aware of anything but the places where their bodies touch.

She is aware that the record is spinning soundlessly and they are still standing, clinging to each other in the middle of his cold apartment.

She is aware of the icy clothes grasping onto her body and the chilly drip of her hair down her back and she is aware that he is warm and she is aware that she doesn't like the breath of distance still between their foreheads.

She has to stand on her tiptoes when she kisses him. His lips are warm like the rest of him, and she tangles her hand through his hair and he loops his arm further round her waist and she thinks that maybe she likes Elvis, too.


	8. Marshmallows

She storms back through the labyrinth of dark hallways she still isn't used to, echo of her own angry footsteps the only noise she can hear. There is a lump in her throat threatening to break out and an ache in her skull that makes her head pound and she can't even think straight now, rage coursing through her.

She is used to the emotion, used to pressing it inward harder and harder when she feels her fingers begin to quiver–but it is usually Coulson she runs to for guidance–never who she is running _from_.

She passes the lab and her footsteps echo louder against the glass walls and when she glances in, she somehow still expects him to be sitting slouched over his favorite computer, Grumpy mug forgotten alongside him–focused exhaustion in his eyes.

But no.

Another pulse of anger courses through her and this time she lets a growl rise in her throat, turning on her heel and kicking the wall, hard.

It hurts like hell but releases some of the tension pent up inside of her, pressing hard to get out.

("You can't just send him away! It was my choice–you _told_ me it was my choice and I made it!"

"It was the wrong choice, and you knew it. You let your emotional attachment dictate your decision and _that's_ what gets people hurt."

"He would have been fine! We could have just taken him out of the field for a while–he never had to be in the field anyway!"

"He was a liability, Daisy. I made the hard choice for you."

"He was my liability to _deal with_ , director.")

She considers, briefly, going back to her bunk–but even the thought of the quiet surrounding and closing in around her is too much to bear.

And then she is thinking about Lincoln, and the conversation that had prompted her to challenge Coulson.

("How do you _do it_?" she asks him over the beer he'd pressed quickly into her hand when she'd sought him out the first time that day, frustration with their leader overwhelming her.

"What? Simultaneously be so charming and good looking?"

He is trying to make her smile and it works.

"Put up with Coulson, dumbass," she responds, rocking sideways to nudge into his shoulder. "I know how much you can't stand him and how he leads us. How do you still stay here for him anyway?"

He laughs, drowning it in a slow draw from his own bottle–but his light eyes never leave hers.

He swallows, and his expression has changed into something softer.

"You don't really think I stay here for him, do you?"

She shrugs, feeling her brow furrow slightly at his odd demeanor. He shifts, setting his beer onto the table blindly.

"I stay here for you.")

He is still in the kitchen, but Bobbi and Eden have joined him now. A bag of marshmallows are strewn across the table and the muffled laughing quiets when she storms in.

He is at the fridge and is the only one who smiles when he sees her.

"Bob and Eden are seeing who can fit more marshmallows in their mouths," he explains without prompting, glancing back at their friends. "Mack is about to owe me twenty bucks for not betting on Wonder-Woman–wanna join the pool?"

She hardly hears what he says, pulling herself from her temporary haze and crossing the little room in two strides, shoving his shoulders back against the fridge he's just shut.

"Daisy, what–" he murmurs, staring down at her with a start.

"Tell me you meant it," she interrupts, and continues when he still hesitates with confusion, "promise me you meant it."

He stays silent a breath longer and she presses closer to him, feeling the room grow smaller around them. She clutches the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders, watching his searching eyes finally settle into realization.

"Of course I meant it."

His voice is something soft and gentle that make her press closer to him still.

And then she kisses him.


	9. Snuggles Drabble

There is something about waking up curled tight in his arms with no place to be that makes Skye wonder how she'd gotten on so long without him. Tired kisses pressed lazily to her shoulder blades and roaming fingers finding her own as he lets out a little breath that borders on groan and makes her stomach do little flips beneath where their hands are tangled.

"Don't get up," she orders in a voice that is a little too groggy to be taken seriously—but she squeezes his fingers tight between her own and snuggles back closer to him when he chuckles delicately into the hair tangled at her neck.

"I had no intention of going anywhere," he promises, punctuating the words with his lips brushed along the sharp line of her jaw and no, she isn't sure how she went on so long without this at all.

The bed is small—not designed with sharing in mind, but they get on fine with it anyway—legs and arms a jumbled tangled mess among the sheets—and neither of them particularly mind that they wake so twisted together they can't tell where they end and where the other begins.

At least for Skye, the close proximity is a comfort—being so physically near to him that it's like their invisible walls have shifted and meshed and there isn't a single thing in the world he might be keeping from her.

It is a comfort that she never loses her appreciation for.

He has let her hand go now—arm draped over her hip, playing his fingers in a mindless gentle pattern above her belly button that makes her skin tingle. His lips have found her shoulder again, and his hair (perpetually stuck up but even more ridiculous in the mornings) tickles where it brushes beneath her jaw.

"You might need a haircut," she tells him, smirking as she shifts in his arms so she's lying on her back, head tilted to take in his sleep fogged and mildly offended expression, lips turned slightly downwards. She only smiles harder, untangling her hand from between them to run up through his chaotic hair then down beneath his jaw, thumbing gently at his frown till it softens away and he rolls his eyes.

"Your hair is all over, all the time," he argues, still looking dubiously down at her smirk—using the arm he isn't propped up with to tug playfully at a stray curl, "you have actually no grounds upon which to stand on and tell me to get a haircut."

When she doesn't stop smirking, he places the lock carefully across her nose, biting at his lips to keep back his own smile.

"Beautiful," he tells her.

"I know."

She blows at the curl, and when it does nothing, reaches to brush it away—except Lincoln is faster, catching her wrist and pinning it to the mattress with a chuckle he fails to hide.

"Uh uh. You complain about hair, you get exposed to the full hair treatment," he tells her, and his face is too close for her not to blow stubbornly at it.

"I will take you down, Sparky," she tells his far too gleeful smirk.

"You haven't had coffee yet," he responds, ducking his head even nearer to hers and lowering his voice, "I'm pretty sure you couldn't even take down Fitz in this state."

She has to fight laughter, this time shaking her head and succeeding in freeing her face of the curl.

"I know you think I love you enough that I won't tell Fitz you said that," she informs him, "but you are so, so wrong."

He laughs, in the full way that makes his entire face light up and her heart do little flips—relinquishing his hold on her wrist and sinking back into the mattress beside her. She follows his movements, turning her head so they are nose to nose, and she can watch his chuckles soften into that bright, full smile.

"I'm still telling him, even though you're adorable," she whispers, finding the little notch of gold in the ocean of his eyes and trying not to smile.

She cuddles nearer to him, pressing her forehead into the space beneath his chin and smiling softly when his arm works its way round her waist again, tugging her nearer as he buries his lips in her hair.

"I will even assist you in telling him," he says softly into her hair, "if you just please do not get out of bed yet."

She smiles a little harder, pressing her lips to his collarbone.

"I had no intention of going anywhere."


End file.
